


No Dominion

by rosereddawn



Category: True Detective
Genre: Breathplay, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, F/M, Sex Work, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:20:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1363792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosereddawn/pseuds/rosereddawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enough guys wash in thinking a little tough posing makes them something else. All too few know when to bend, but this one does. It’s not something Chrissie should know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Dominion

“Chrissie! Come over here.” 

The club is loud this late at night. Sludge rock blasts from the speakers with a bass Chrissie feels in her teeth. The voices have risen to a cacophony around the fires, laughter erupting like shotgun blasts. Engines roar and the stench of burned tires travels across the lot. 

And yet Ginger’s voice carries through the haze, unagitated and low, with an ease like he knows Chrissie’s listening. When she turns her head, he’s gesturing her. 

“Alright, sugar.” She makes to get up. “Gotta excuse me for a minute.” 

Leo protests, hands and mouth persistent, tries to pull her back down on his lap when she seeks balance. The borrowed heels don’t sit right. She shakes him off and pulls her skirt down. If it were for any other reason, she’d be giving him a placating kiss, a little sweet talk. Not for this. 

“Ginger wants me.” 

Palms up and open, Leo drops back in the chair. He does give her a slap on the ass goodbye, though.

The night air moves cool around her legs as she stalks past another fire, navigating dropped bottles and cans, to where Ginger’s waiting. With him is that new guy, gaunt and tall, holding a cigarette between two fingers like a pen. Ginger’s taken a liking to him. Enough guys wash in thinking a little tough posing makes them something else, but all too few know when to bend. This one does. It’s not something Chrissie should know. 

“You remember Crash, don’t you?”

The words turn her stomach queasy. Still she nods and smiles, all sweet, and plays with her hair. “How you doing, handsome?”

Ginger’s laid back and easy in posture, the drug-induced mania a vortex around his stillness towards which Crash tilts. Bent forward, he raises his head like he means to greet her, but his eyes veer off somewhere to the side. 

“That’s really not necessary,” he says. His voice is a slow, rough drawl around a lungful of smoke. The words aren’t directed at her; they’re for Ginger, and Ginger’s smile grows wider and shows teeth. His pale, unblinking eyes fixate her.

“You give my man a nice time. Show him how to relax.”

“Sure thing.”

She holds out her hand. The sooner she can get away and on with it the better - Ginger gives her the creeps - but Crash shows no sign of moving. Sits there frozen in place, shadows pooling in his eye sockets and the hollow of his cheeks. 

“Nah, man, don’t act like that. You don’t want a little something sweet? Look here, I got something to get you going.” 

The chair scratches through the dirt as Ginger drags it towards Crash, then leans right into his space, and ah, that’s none of her business, that’s not for her to see. She fumbles for a cigarette.

Across the lot, Leo sloshes a bottle around. He breaks into that bellowing laughter that means he’s drunk. The good kind of drunk. The one where he’ll pull her close and kiss her and won’t mind that she sneaks her fingers under his shirt where it rides up. Might be he’s still in that mood when she comes back. Maybe he’ll stay up with her ‘til morning, like that time they didn’t even fuck, just lay in bed, riding out their high, and the first light of day was filtering through the smoke, all pretty and still. 

It’s not steady with Leo or anything. All she’s got is some persistent hope. It could be. Could be right there’s her lucky one. 

From the corners of her eyes, she sees Crash bowing under Ginger’s hand, into a shadowy space blocked by their bodies. She hears him snort, Ginger’s laugh, and then there’s a sound so sudden and loud it makes her jump, fingers snapping her cigarette in two. Crash gulps down air. Fights for it like he’s been drowning - two, three times - then stumbles to his feet. “Fuck.” 

“Well, now you got it.” Ginger takes a long swig from a bottle. There’s cackling and sneering all around that Chrissie has learned not to hear. 

She holds out her hand again. “I know a place, nice and quiet. Just for the two of us.” 

He staggers towards her, too much white in his eyes, gaze adrift chasing smoke and shadows. His hand lies soft, cold and damp in hers as she leads the way.

From the far side, Leo’s watching. When she waves, he turns his back.

-

There’s a room in the back, upstairs, past the door she shouldn't have passed. It stood open. She heard those choking sounds from down the hall but figured it was one of the new girls, still clumsy, unskilled in deflection when someone's got something to prove. So she walked past and cast a glance inside - sometimes that's all it takes for a guy to ease up. Remind him he’s still got a sense of shame despite his drunk, horny haze. 

It wasn't a girl. The person who knelt there wore a dark winged jacket and that should have been enough of a warning. She should have turned around and left. But Ginger’d already seen her and as if transfixed by his unblinking stare, she stood and watched. And Ginger tilted his hips forward and down, and he gripped Crash by a fistful of hair, and with one last ugly sound Crash went utterly still like only panic achieves in men. 

She tugged her head in and hurried away. 

Her heels tap a staccato beat over the bass from downstairs. The window at the end of the hallway has turned blind against the blunt shine from outside. Crash's fingers have tightened around hers. He keeps a step behind, cigarette between his lips every time she looks back. 

“In here.” 

The room is littered, the red sofa stained. Cold smoke hangs in the air. The smell of spilled drinks, of sweat and sex, lies thick and cloying against the back of her mouth. In a minute or two that’ll pass; she’ll be distracted and pay no mind to the smell.

She’s about to head to the sofa, telling him to shut the door, when a tug on her hand pulls her back. Crash has come to a halt one step across the doorway and doesn’t budge. Head turned, eyes closed, he holds his breath as if nauseous. 

“You alright?” Chrissie bites her lip. “Is it the smell? We don’t need to stay here. Just thought you’re a man who wants to enjoy himself in peace. And no one’s gonna burst in here, disturb us or anything.” 

There’s a pale sheen along his hairline. He’s never letting go of her hand, never looks at her. Along his neck, the pulse points flutter.

“You wanna go? Or I can just…” She steps closer, lets herself be pulled towards him with a coy turn of the shoulder. One-handedly, she fumbles at his belt. “I can take your mind off it? Kiss it all better.” She opens his button, unzips him. “Would you like that?” 

All she sees of his lowered face is the cigarette flaring up bright red, blaze creeping along the paper in a jagged line as he inhales. Whatever Ginger’s given him, it’s got a kick - much unlike the coke Leo scores.

Slow and sweet, just a tease, she lets her fingers wander down the parted front of his jeans. It’s no surprise she finds him hard. “Mmh. I think you’d like that.” Voice lowered to a whisper, she sinks into a crouch. 

In the pocket of her denim skirt she keeps a condom, and she fumbles for it replacing the hand on him with a warm mouth, a long exhale. A jolt runs through him. Flakes of ash sink down, landing in her hair. His grip hardens, hurts, and with the hand that holds the cigarettes he pushes at her until she’s swaying, forgets about the condom, tries not to trip. 

He collects himself. “You got any downers with you?”

“No. Just some grass downstairs.”

His eyes start to drift, like they’re tracking some shadow. It creeps her out enough that she throws a glance behind her back. Her gran always said, cats looking into the void like that, they see spirits. There’s nothing there.

"What did Ginger give you?"

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even seem to hear. 

She gets up. “Come on now. This will relax you too.” 

A little nudge and he sniffs and blinks like waking from a dream, bony fingers digging into her palm. Each step painfully slow he staggers after her until he can lower himself against the edge of the couch. Sinking into the cushions is like all his strings are cut, the weight of the body overwhelmed by drug inertia. His head falls back, his mouth goes lax. He’s pale, but then again, she’s seen worse. 

None of them are pretty once it’s a habit getting high, all turn either bloated or drained. This one, though, she figures with a little color on those cheeks, a little meat on the bones, he wouldn’t have been hard on the eyes.

She lets herself be pulled in his wake until she gets to sit on his lap. “I take it, it’s not a blowjob you want?”

“No.” 

He opens his grip, finally. While she shakes out her hand, he’s already busy fumbling at her shirt, fingers long and hungry seeking contact, turning her skin foreign under his touch. 

“So how d’you want it instead? It’s alright, girl like me’s seen a whole lot. Hard to surprise.”

She pulls her shirt off and leaning forward, arms tucked in to give her cleavage a little boost, the bit of flimsy lace she wears good for not much else but this. Oh, how he’s looking now, how he grabs her, fingers stiff and cramped - it doesn’t hurt, but she doubts he’d care if it did. She kisses his neck, tastes bitter night, smells sweat and leather, and his breath escapes him in a sigh, in longing, his hands all over, inhales with his nose in her hair. They all seek something in her body, some haven she herself has no knowledge of, a phantasmagoria of bliss and peace, but few are as insistent as Crash. Like it’s not fantasy that’s pulling him along but her scent, herself akin to the drug he wanted, something to keep his firing nerves aligned. 

She strokes her palm up his side and he flinches, recedes like under pain and yet leans right back in. There is no delight in sparking his reactions. Mania sits under his skin, rolls his eyes, lust opening into a hungry void.

“You alright?”

Rather than give an answer, he lifts her up, just enough so he can pull himself free with one hand, then fumble at her panties. The tension in his jaw, those wide eyes, haunted, breath picking up speed - there's something’s brittle about him that makes her wary.

“Hey, hey, wait a second.” 

She’s still got that condom nudged somewhere in her pocket. The skirt’s all bulged up around her hips.

“Wait.”

Once she’s got it, she moves fast, rips the wrapping with her teeth and rolls it on, and she barely has time to spit on her fingers, ease the way a little, before he bucks up into her, one quick motion causing a bright flare of pain. It passes quickly. Then she keeps herself level on her knees, hands clutching at his neck, his shoulders for support, and she fucks him fast and shallow. His eyes roll back, chest locked forward like electricity running through him setting his body on edge.

She doesn’t expect him to last long.

But as it happens, he turns his face to the side, and clings to her, and urges her on. Lips pressed together in a white line, eyes shut tight, he keens.

Some don’t get it up at all, some embarrass themselves like a teenager touching a woman for the first time. And some, some chase and chase and find no release.

Leaning forward, pressing a kiss to his long open neck, she whispers, “How d’you want it, darling? What d’you need?”

As if with effort, he pries his eyes open, gaze perpetually evading hers, drawing a curve along her body, but his hands find hers with certainty. He clutches her wrists, then moves and repositions them: one around the back of his neck, and one around his throat.

“Keep your fingers on the carotids. Press down on-”

“I know how to do breathplay.”

“I don’t play.” He slurs the words like an insult. “So you know not to crush the Adam’s apple. That’s good. You block the wind pipe and then you cut off the blood. Don’t let go until I’m about to pass out. You got that?”

She swallows, tilts her pelvis to let her weight rest on his hips for a moment. He won’t let her hands budge an inch. “That’s not safe.”

“What’s it to you?”

“No, no, listen, I don’t do this. That can go bad.”

“I’m not gonna be the one ratting you out if it does.”

All that shyness is gone. His throat moves under her palm when he speaks, that part that’s so easily breakable, forced into her grip.

“D’you just trust anyone like that?”

“I never said I trusted you.”

His fingers stroke up her thighs, urgent, grabbing and lifting her. Biting her lip, she plays along. There’s an upside too. Passing out, he can’t hurt her.

On the crappy texture of the sofa, giving way too easily under her weight, she scrambles forward and then slowly, more carefully, picks up her pace again, fucking him in soft waves. He’s stiff like that alone is too much, like he’s about to crawl out of his skin.

Tentatively, she presses her fingertips into his neck. She can feel the bones of his vertebrae. The length of her palm forces up against the tender crook under his chin. His mouth falls open, gasping for air, and his hands find stillness around her side.

The pulse points beat under her fingertips, beckoning, now, now. His skin is rough with stubbles. She presses harder and a strange tightness distorts his features. Eyes sinking deeper, the veins more pronounced.

She takes a breath and his cut off entirely, she fucks him, soft, soft, incessantly, daring her hands to commit. Color creeps up high and a darkness descends like a veil on his face, lifting him to leave an uncanny stillness behind, and his eyes, half lidded, roll back into shadows.

She hears her own raspy breath and the wet sounds of their bodies moving together. A visceral darkness, a weight sinks within her, and a shudder runs down her spine.

Terrified, she lets go.

He wakes. Startles with the same panicked sound as when he snorted from Ginger’s hand, fingers clawing into her skin, eyes opening wide. He chokes down air.

"Crash," she whispers his name. "Hey."

There's images flashing before her, of stealing downstairs, hushing past Ginger, out of the club and away to run as far as she can, because there is no other way this would go: if he died so would she.

Don’t make me do it again, she’s about to say, but it’s not necessary.

He seizes up. Unexpectedly he pulls her close, arms wrapped around her back. Warm as he is under her, it’s tempting to give in to this comfort, but stubbornly she resists. A moment is all he gets, and then she’s done and disentangles from his hold.

He puts himself away. Reaches for a cigarette, lighter clicking in the quiet room, the blaze crackling. Head hung between his shoulders, he takes a long drag and the smoke curls up around his face, into the dark.

She shakes out her hands; they hurt. Her top slipped off the sofa at some point. She picks it up, gives it a quick shake and gets dressed, willing the mess inside her to form into words. Her voice shakes as she speaks. “Next time Ginger wants you to fuck? Ask for someone else. Blond girl, fake tits, whatever. Not me. I’m not your type, alright?”

The way he’s looking at her, with this long, unblinking stare, she can see now how he’s close with Ginger. It’s the same crazy, just a slightly different flavor.

“This, you, me, you think this has anything to do with type and want?”

She shakes her head, backing away. “You want to die, get someone else to do it. Or do it your fucking self.”

She slams the door shut behind her. Her knees are weak as she rushes downstairs, past the bar and its lights and the thick billows of smoke, runs towards the sound of the bass, and with stinging eyes budges out the doors.

It’s like being lifted by the night air. Crisp and clear, it cuts through the haze. The music has moved on to something faster, thrashier. Ginger pays her no mind.

She takes a breath and then waits, fingers pressed against her mouth, for the sob weighing against her sternum to ease away undelivered. She’s not a girl anymore. This isn’t something to cry about.

Quickly, she takes care of any smudges that might be forming under her lids, then pulls the straps on her heels tighter and walks across the lot back to the fire.

Leo’s busy wrestling some guy in the dirt. Whether it’s friendly she can’t tell straight away, but at the sound of breaking glass they ease up quickly. As they’re pulling one another back to their feet, he notices her.

She keeps her back straight. If he wants to ignore her, fine. She tells herself she won’t mind.

But he gives the guy a last pat and comes over, one hand shoved into his pocket, the other snatching a bottle. Breath still heavy, he says, “Hey.” His cheeks are flushed and there’s dirt on his jacket. “Done?”

She nods. Her eyes sting when she smiles. “Done.”

It’s gotta be rum or scotch that he’s drinking, something strong; what exactly isn’t all that important right now. She reaches for the bottle. He always says, a woman that can hold her liquor makes him proud, and right now she could use a little of both, the liquor and his pride.

Something must show in her expression. He regards her strangely when she drinks. “Was he rough?”

“Nah, it’s just....” She takes another gulp. The place next to Ginger is still empty. Upstairs, the window glass reflects the fires as nothing but a dull shine. “Nevermind.” She holds out her hand. “You wanna stay up with me ‘til morning?”

“Mmh.” He doesn’t just hold her hand; he pulls her close. “Gotta let me settle something first. I think Bear still wants that beating I owe him.”

She sneaks her fingers under his shirt, right where it rides up over his stomach, and leans against his shoulder, and closes her eyes for the kiss.


End file.
